The Rascally Romance (in a single helluva-long letter about a flicking-short life) - Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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She would run out into the yard to scoop up a basinful of snow and rub your senseless hands with it, and order to put them in the saucepan in the kitchen sink under the cold water running from the tap. And life would start to slowly come back to your hands. You’d whine from the piercing needles of unbearable pain in your fingers, and Mom would yell at you, “Serves you right! You, rascal roamer! You, bitter woe of mine!.”
And though still whimpering from the pain in your stiff fingers and in your tongue skinned by the savage frosty iron, you’d know for sure that everything will be fine because your Mom knew how to save you…
~ ~ ~
After the winter holidays, Seraphima Sergeevna brought to the classroom an issue of the newspaper The Pioneer Pravda and instead of the lesson she was reading aloud the news about Nikita Khrushchev’s promise that in 20 years we all would live in Communism built by that time in our state.
Coming back home, I shared the delightful news that in 20 years that day we were going to live in Communism when any item at the store would be given just for asking because at school they told us so. To that announcement, my parents only exchanged silent glances, yet abstained from partaking in my festive mood on account of so bright a future. I decided not to bother them any longer, but deep in my mind started arithmetic calculations to discover that being around in Communism at the age of seven-and-twenty, I wouldn’t be too badly old, still having some time to enjoy free things…
By that time all the pupils of our class had already become Octoberists, for which occasion a group of grown-up fifth-graders visited our classroom to pin Octoberist badges on our school uniforms. The badge was a small scarlet star of five tips around the yellow frame in the center out of which, as if from a medallion, peeped the angelic face of Volodya Ulyanov sporting long golden locks in his early childhood when playing with his sister he ordered her, “March out from under the sofa!.” And later he grew up, lost his hair and became Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and they wrote a great many books about him…
At home, there appeared a filmstrip projector – a clumsy device with a set of lenses in its nose tube, as well as a box of small plastic barrels to keep tight dark scrolls of filmstrips. Among the filmstrips, there happened some old acquaintances – the one about the hero of the Civil War, Zhelezniak the Seaman, another about the little daughter of a revolutionary, who smartly dropped the typesetting sorts, brought by her father for printing underground leaflets, into a jug of milk when the police raided their house late at night. They never had brains enough to check under the milk…
Of course, it was I who loaded the filmstrips and then rotated the black scroll-wheel to move the projected frames. And I also read the inscriptions under the pictures, which did not last long though, because my sister-’n’-brother learned them by heart and retold before the whole frame would creakily creep down into the rectangular of light shed onto the wallpaper.
The challenge to my seniority from Natasha did not hurt so bitterly as Sasha’s disobedience. Just so recently as we two pranced, panting, into the kitchen to still our thirst with water from the tap, he readily conceded the white tin mug, adorned with the revolutionary battleship Aurora’s imprint on its side, to me as to the elder, bigger, brother. And emptying half of it, I generously handed the mug back for him to finish off the water, after all, that was the way for strength transmitting. How come that I became so strong? Because, without silly prissiness, I drank a couple of gulps from the bottle of water started by Sasha Nevelsky, the strongest boy in our class.
My younger brother listened with trust to my naive claptrap and dutifully grabbed the outstretched mug… Like me, he was over-credulous and once at midday meal, when Dad took out from his soup plate a cartilage without meat and announced: who’d gnaw it up was to get a prize—one kilo of gingerbread, Sasha volunteered and, after protracted munching, managed to swallow the cartilage but never got the promised sweetmeat, probably Dad forgot his promise…
A parcel arrived from the post-office, or rather Mom dropped in there to pick it on her way home after work, that box of faded plywood secured by a string glued to its sides with brown blobs of stamped sealing wax, with two addresses in block blue letters on its top: to our numbered mailbox from the city of Konotop.
The parcel was set on a stool in the kitchen and all of the family gathered around. The lid with the addresses, nailed firmly and aplenty, had to be removed by application of a big kitchen knife used as a lever, and revealed a sizable lump of lard, and a red hot-water bottle of hooch gurgling in between its rubber sides. The rest of the space within the box was filled to the brims with black sunflower seeds.
When slightly scorched in a frying pan, the seeds became simply delicious. We crushed them with our teeth, piled hulls away into a saucer placed in the center of the kitchen table, and enjoyed those small but so tasty, sharp-nosed, hearts.
And then Mom said if not eating them just so, one after another, but you amass, say, half a glass of husked seeds then add a sprinkle of sugar, that would be a treat indeed. Each of her 3 children was
